The State of His Knees
by dietplainlite
Summary: It's half past one in the morning, and Sherlock Holmes is on his knees in Sally Donovan's flat.


It's half past one in the morning, and Sherlock Holmes is on his knees in Sally Donovan's flat. She looks down on him from her perch, on a bar stool by the open window, where she's smoking a cigarette He's removed his jacket and is in his shirt sleeves, but she's not sure if those fine bespoke trousers will be salvageable. He looks up at her, and while his expression is mostly inscrutable, she thinks she may detect just a modicum of something bordering on respect. Today had been a shit day (a woefully decomposed corpse had basically exploded on her at a crime scene, and that wasn't the worst part of the day) and if someone had told her it would end like this, she would have laughed, then kicked them in the groin, male or female. She does chuckle a bit now, and he shoots her a look that can't be mistaken for anything but scorn. She hands over her cigarette, which he takes enthusiastically, sucking it almost down to the filter in one enormous pull. He hands it back and she stubs it out.

"Now," she says. "Let's get started, shall we?"

When Lestrade had announced that he was buying drinks tonight in honor of John Watson's birthday, the entire team had groaned like school children given coursework at the last minute on a Friday. Lestrade's face had fallen.

"I thought you all liked Watson? He's a standup guy. And it's trivia night!"

Anderson piped up, "John Watson's fine, Greg, but Christ, you know that means Sherlock will be tagging along. We've gone a month without needing to call him in on a case. I've quite enjoyed not finding fibres from that damned coat all over the evidence."

Several others voiced their concerns, the conversation building to a dull roar peppered with choice insults.

"Bloody git!"

"Pompous trust fund brat!"

"Thinks he's God's gift to, well, everything!"

"Walks around looking like everyone's farted."

Sally had remained silent. Everyone knew how she felt about things. The things she said to his face were never half as bad as what she said when he wasn't there. She knew it was cowardly and unprofessional, but she'd rather be a wretched bitch to him than let him know how much it got to her every time Lestrade had to call him in. His showing up made her head feel like an echo chamber with the word "Failure" bouncing off the walls.

Sherlock's behavior had improved slightly since Watson had moved in with him, and this was part of why they liked the John, despite the fact that no one could figure out how they'd gone all this time without being called to 221B Baker Street to investigate the murder of Sherlock Holmes. However, Sherlock was still insufferable most of the time, and free drinks weren't enough for most of them to endure his presence when they weren't being paid to do so.

"Quiet!" Lestrade's voice boomed. He looked around the room, employing the look Sally had dubbed The Disappointed Dad.

"Just a few pints, yeah? It's Trivia Night! Besides, Sherlock probably won't even come."

John Watson was sitting at the bar when they got to the Hammer and Horn. Sitting next to him, coat still on, scowling and slowly pouring stout beer into a pint glass half full of ale, was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock and John's landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was sitting on the other side of John, sipping a frightful Technicolor cocktail and chattering away at John. Todd, the bartender, was eyeing Sherlock with the contempt he usually reserved for Manchester United fans. Judging by the amount of ale still left in John's glass, the trio had been at the pub less than ten minutes.

Greg surveyed the scene, turned around and gave the team the Dad Will Fuck You Up If You Don't Behave look. He ordered a round right away and distributed money for the jukebox.

"Oi, Greg! Trivia's starting in about ten minutes, so don't get too enthusiastic with the tunes."

"Sure thing, Todd." Sally followed Greg when he went over to John. She wished him a happy birthday and Greg followed suit, with a few manly pats on the shoulder.

"How'd you manage to get this one out of the flat, then?" he asked, jerking his head toward Sherlock. Sherlock retreated deeper into his coat.

"Well, he's been a bit bored, and with Mrs. Hudson coming out with me we didn't want to leave him home. Might burn down the building or something." John gave Greg a meaningful look and Greg nodded.

"Right. Sherlock, mate, sorry I haven't had anything for you lately. Bloody criminals haven't been creative enough. Hey, you know that'll separate better if you pour it over a spoon, right? Or you could just have let Todd pour it for you."

Sherlock shrugged and looked over Greg's shoulder at Sally, who was chatting with John.

"Sergeant," he said when he caught her eye.

"Civilian," she said, and went back to her conversation with John.

Greg hoped that that would be the only interaction the two would have tonight. Their constant sniping at each other was reaching a point where he would be forced to say something to Sally (getting through to Sherlock was impossible.) Since Sherlock was technically not supposed to be anywhere near the crime scenes, however, he didn't know how he could approach the subject, at least not officially. So he tried to keep them as far apart as possible. One poor soul had once asked Sally when she and Sherlock were going to "do it and get it over with." That man was currently riding a desk while recovering from a sprained wrist. Sally had always been ace at hand to hand combat.

Greg went around organizing teams for trivia, he admitted to being a bit nervous when Sherlock decided to join in (with John practically twisting his arm) until Anderson pointed out that the man didn't actually know everything. Since a lot of the questions would be about pop culture, he figured it would at least approach being a fair fight. He became even more nervous, though, when Sherlock and Sally were made captains of their respective teams. The nervousness came to a fever pitch when he heard mention of some sort of wager between the two. He pulled John aside.

"What's this about a bet?"

"Oh, you know those two. Sally just bet Sherlock that her team would beat ours."

Sally's teammates were Anderson, who read voraciously and consumed trashy celebrity magazines faster than a bored housewife, and Mike Stamford, who had a passion for quiz shows and early television. Sherlock's teammates were Mrs. Hudson, and John. Both watch a lot of trash telly, but he wasn't sure what their other strengths were going to be.

"What are the terms?"

"Oh they wouldn't say. Could be anything with those two" John said, downing his beer and signaling for another one.

"Well what about the other teams?"

"Erm, they don't seem too concerned about that. I just hope she didn't say she'd give him her gun. It's hard enough keeping mine away from him."

Greg smiled thinly and took his place with his own team.

John Watson's confidence lasted most of the game. That confidence was heartily fortified by the beer that kept flowing, but also by the fact that he had a pretty cracking team. (He'd dubbed them CSI: Baker Street, to Mrs. Hudson's delight and Sherlock's obvious displeasure.) Sure, Sherlock had some pretty profound knowledge gaps, but he more than made up for it when it came to the things he did know. And when Sherlock dismissed something he didn't know as being unimportant, John and Mrs. Hudson were able to fill in the gaps enough to keep a slight lead.

After the penultimate round, Sherlock slammed his fist on the table after the other team correctly answered a question about a Jane Austen novel.

"Why can't they ask a question about something important!"

"Sherlock, Jane Austen is one of the most celebrated authors in English literature."

"Fiction, dull," he said. Sally's team was only one point behind (the other teams weren't even close and some of them had stopped trying) and Sherlock wasn't looking quite as collected as before. He looked positively frantic when Anderson correctly listed the names of all of the Beckham children.

"Alright, everyone, that's the final round and we've got a tie between CSI: Baker Street and Law and Order: Better Than You!" said the trivia host, a cherubic young man in an inexplicable top hat. "That means a sudden death round, and only the team captains can participate. " He shuffled the trivia cards dramatically and pulled one out. Sally and Sherlock shot looks across the room that might have been capable of maiming innocent bystanders.

"You've got this, Sherlock." John says.

"Of course I do," Sherlock replies, eyes still locked on Sally.

"Okay. The category is 'The Solar System!"

The room fell silent and Sally smiled.

An hour later, John decided it was time to leave, having struck out with the cute constable with the freckles. He collected a sulky Sherlock from a corner table and followed him over to Sally.

"Donovan," Sherlock said. "Text me tomorrow when you get home and I will come to your flat to fulfill the terms of the bet."

"Oh, no. No way," she said. "You're doing it tonight. You could be halfway to Zurich by tomorrow evening chasing some case."

"Fine," he said, putting on his scarf. "Do not expect me to pay for the taxi."

"Woohoo!" bellowed an incredibly drunk sergeant as they headed for the door. "Whatcha got in store for him at your flat there, Sal?"

"Oh nothing much," she said, pushing Sherlock out the door. "He's just going to scrub my floors."


End file.
